


double check for double meanings

by r1ker



Category: The Nice Guys (2016)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 04:12:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6939163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r1ker/pseuds/r1ker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>my type - saint motel</p></blockquote>





	double check for double meanings

Holland doesn't think it's a date. At least, it doesn't come off as one at first.

 

He and Jackson are in a bar as per usual, sitting side by side at an individual table rather than the communal bar near the barkeep. There are two fresh drinks before them and Holland hasn't even bothered to take a sip of his on account of just sitting next to Jackson like this, off the clock, is polarizing.

 

Jackson's looking off elsewhere in the small expanse of the bar, focusing on the small ensemble playing background music to the conversations going on throughout. In his posture Holland feels a brand of confidence he's never known from anyone else.

 

Briefly he envies it, the comfort Jackson has in the presence of another man, along with the dazzling smile that flashes when something particularly strikes him. From time to time he'll look back at Holland, meet his eyes to gauge his response to the situation. It's an inviting look, Jackson looking down to the glasses they later take long sips from, then back to Holland.

 

The urge to look down at his hand for just a second comes back. When he does give in, glance down to where his thumb slopes into his forefinger, he doesn't see the ink that was once there. He sees Jackson's hand next to his, lying in casual repose on the table next to their glasses. For a second he wants to take it in his, feel the strength and the power he knows lies behind it.

 

Not one to resist a fleeting temptation he does. And he'll be goddamned Jackson squeezes his back, gaze never ceasing in focus on the band but flicking down long enough to recognize what's happened. Holland can feel a few other people around them in the bar looking and he picks a few of them to focus on with a satisfied smile. This isn't a date, isn't a date, but it is. And far be it from him not to let others know what is his.

 

They finish off another drink and Holland walks out with Jackson, feeling one of his hands at the small of his back. Throughout this night Jackson's been more gentlemanly than Holland had bargained for. By God he'd even opened the taxi door for Holland when it came time for them to go into the bar.

 

 _It's respect not affection, it's kindness not admiration_ , is what Holland repeats ad infinitum as he goes on about the night, but when Jackson escorts him to his front step with nothing behind their strides other than a winding down to the night, he speaks up. When the hand leaves his back he turns around and finds half of Jackson's face visible in the waning moonlight. It spells out more softness than Holland ever thought possible in a man so worn by his profession.

 

"You coming inside?" Holland asks, quiet as if they're before an audience at the ready to lay down judgment as to their night out. To his unexpected disappointment, Jackson tips his head in dissention. Like he was thinking all along, friendship, companionship, anything else that ends in ship, that's what they are. Nothing more. Still he doesn't want to let up on this. "You're more than welcome to. Holly's at a sleepover, one of her friend's. I know it seems like I make my kid sleep out of the house a lot but I promise you, she genuinely-" He's cut off by one of Jackson's fingers to his lips.

 

The finger leaves and one of Jackson's hands passes fleetingly over Holland's shoulder as Jackson speaks for the last time this evening. "I'm going to head back. I'll see you tomorrow morning, yeah?" Christ, Holland forgot. They'd made a habit out of it, meeting each morning at the same place for the same breakfast at the same time. No way it wouldn't come up then. But maybe there, among bacon and eggs, it'd get all sorted out, this little affair.

 

Working himself quickly past the urge to pull Jackson down for the kiss his stomach has been aching for all night, he squeezes the hand previously on his shoulder. "Yeah. Good night." They part. Holland feels like his front door is ten thousand pounds as it closes behind him quietly. When he settles into bed not shortly after Jackson leaves he wonders just where his partners would fit into the façade of domesticity he's made for himself.

 

For one Holland wouldn't be able to hoard all of a king-sized bed to himself anymore, would have to scoot over each and every night in order to cater to Jackson's welcoming and warm weight. Not like that'd be a burden. Something he's longed for in the last few months, something he wants above any other pay out that comes from being a private investigator, is contact. The hand squeeze they'd shared earlier on wasn't enough. It seemed to stoke the fire but made no effort to actually extinguish it in the most fulfilling way.

 

He wouldn't wake up to the screaming of his alarm. There wouldn't be any violent tumbles off of his bed to shut the damn thing up so he could savor those last few moments of peace before his day and his morning were in full swing. Lying here now, under his comforters and pillows that, God, _Jackson bought for me when he got me this goddamn house_ , makes him long for the sensation of another body resting warm and heavy next to his.

 

Holland turns over in the wide expanse of his sleeping area, lets a hand wander blindly over where he will forever envision Jackson spending his nights for as long as this life will allow them. And when he goes to sleep, not long after his hand decides all for itself it will remain there until it is filled with something other than vacant fabric, he dreams of a third name joining the two.

 

The morning arrives shortly after the night makes itself comfortable. Holland wakes up, readies himself for another day in the heart of Los Angeles. This time around his heart's reverberating with the excitement he'd only known once before. The one that told him that from then on, from the second he stepped out of his front door with his car keys in his hand, that the time would be spent with someone he wouldn't regret spending a second of it with.

 

Jackson waits for him at the diner as usual. Holland notices right away his shirt (birthday gift, no way in hell Jackson wasn't going to let that date come up not six weeks into their partnership. _Winter baby_ , Holland remembers fleetingly). He responds to it with a smile he gives past the glinting of the sun through the wide windows of the diner, and Jackson answers with his own. Jackson stands as he always does – Holland's ashamed how accustomed he's gotten to the chivalry – and pulls back the empty chair opposite him so that it may sit his partner.

 

Holland has to stop himself from making an ungodly happy noise when he finds Jackson's already beaten him to the chase, ordered coffee and breakfast for them both. He wonders how long he's got to wait until it's socially acceptable to rip tear into the French toast and bacon, eggs sunny side up and banana pieces, on the plate before him. Judging by the way Jackson tucks into his own same plate it's not much longer than ten seconds.

 

Both of them pull back for air from their food at the same time and silently swap accouterment on the table, napkins and saltshakers, only bumping hands once or twice in the ensuing exchanges. Each time Jackson's fingers, his palm graze his, Holland treats each one like a quiet victory. In a way he's getting what he wants even if it's in public, with either food or drink, but all the while, he is receiving all he wants – time with Jackson.

 

"Knew you'd be hungry," Jackson mentions proudly once Holland's plate is entirely clear. Holland's got to hand it to him, the guy's got a sixth sense about food. He'd learned that firsthand the very first night they'd gotten wasted together, each of them mowing down two-for-one pizzas from Godfather's without a second glance as to a calorie count. Holland had blown right into a sky-high sugar rush when it had been unearthed that they had also ordered cinnamon bread along with a massive amount of pizza, and all Jackson had done in the ensuing onslaught of insulin overdrive was laugh. Beautiful sound.

 

Holland looks at him over the rim of a weathered coffee mug, liking a bit too much the way Jackson's eyes hone in on him, in no way searching around them for something else to set his sights on. No, Holland knows he's got him right in the crosshairs. Now to only keep him here. Setting the coffee mug back down he keeps his gaze on Jackson. "You're a chivalrous bastard, you know that?"

 

Leaning back in his chair a little Jackson tosses his hands up in subdued defeat. That was what he was going for all along. He knew the second he'd shook Holland's hand rather than twisting it around to break the arm it was attached to that he needed a more fastidious approach to courtship. Jackson figures that's what he'll use from now on, since they've gone so far as to have breakfast and drinks together nearly every night for the past month and a half.

 

Jackson plays with a sugar dispenser, pours a neat pile of the granules onto a discarded napkin, speaking while all the while watching the white crystals pile up and up only to spill over. "That's what you needed all along, how can you blame me?"

 

"Explain that for me, would you please," Holland retorts the second Jackson's done talking. At this point in the weekslong game he's in need of an explanation as to Jackson's motives behind it all. And now, in the same rundown diner they've been eating at morning after morning, week after week, he's going to get it. Thank God, because the runaround was threatening to kill him. But first, Jackson distracts him from his own reasoning. He takes one of Holland's hands in his, holds it up before him to run one thick thumb across the expanse of the palm, spread out all five of its fingers only to bring them back together again. Holland watches him, hypnotized by the motion and later the slow parting of Jackson's lips.

 

"You," Jackson's voice is barely a series of breaths against the air around them both, "don't need a fuck buddy. That's right, you, the always charming and never elusive Holland March, needed someone who was just your type." Holland is _gone_. To tell the truth he was dead on arrival the second Jackson started fondling his hand but he hung in there to hear the motive behind it all.

 

"So, I showed you the opposite of what you were expecting from me. Really what I was all about in the first place but never bothered to let you on about. I stick by everything, the not kissing you, not fucking you on the first date. That'd let you have the wrong impression. Maybe the one you were hoping for, but shouldn't have. But now that you and I are far from being separable…" Holland can hear his teeth grinding when Jackson kisses the back of his hand. Following the kiss's end is that familiar set of gleaming blue eyes on his. "I'll let you have what you need."

 

Holland starts searching for a waitress faster than he ever has in his life. Fortunately he flags down quickly someone who looks like she has a clue what's she's talking about and the bill is taken care of quickly. He almost runs at a breakneck pace out of the diner with Jackson close on his heels. On the street outside he taps his heels against the sidewalk, one hand extended for a cab. Once one has stopped to graciously ferry them to wherever they might want to go to continue this discussion he flings Jackson into the backseat, yanks closed the partition.

 

"Now, that wasn't very courteous of you, sending that poor girl off with our bill without the tip I had set aside for her to take," Jackson chides as Holland's hands run over all parts of him, shoving away the jacket too suiting for the mild chill in the L.A. morning outside. Soon he pulls Holland's hands in his, makes sure they're settled between their chests as they press together, in the back of this cab with its unwilling driver, as they kiss.

 

One of Holland's fists rises in slow triumph when Jackson's mouth opens willing under his. If all it took was breakfast, pizza binging and drinks to get his breath stolen from him in the back of a cab, then it was an effort well spent.

**Author's Note:**

> my type - saint motel


End file.
